


A Place in Heaven

by amyfortuna



Series: 2016 Season of Kink (Card 1) [23]
Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Blow Jobs, Comeplay, Escape, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, POV First Person, Post-Canon Fix-It, Reconciliation, Reunions, Snowballing, post-death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-30
Updated: 2016-09-30
Packaged: 2018-08-18 17:22:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8169821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/pseuds/amyfortuna
Summary: Ñolofinwë finds himself alone with Fëanáro after death. Can they find a way to work together and escape their mutual prison?





	

**Author's Note:**

> This fulfils my Season of Kink square for bodily fluids.

"Quiet, Ñolo!" Fëanáro's voice breaks through me, wakes me instantly. He is distracted, studying, and has spoken sharply to me, not for the first time. I blink, unable to focus my eyes properly, and try to catch my breath. I'm sixteen years old, and have fallen asleep on Fëanáro's bed, watching him read and mutter to himself eagerly, hands in his own hair, tugging at black locks.

No. That's wrong. I was sixteen years old once, but that was long, long ago. The memories spill back in flashes, a sword pointed at my chest and a look of fury in Fëanáro's eyes, ice and fire and so much blood. And a dark figure, shadowing over everything. The swing and thud of a mace larger than I am, crashing down on me. 

I cry out involuntarily, and hear movement, the swish of garments across the room. And then Fëanáro is sitting down next to me, and I blink, trying to bring his face into focus.

"Did I not tell you to be quiet?" he asks, and the tone is irritated. "I'm trying to work." 

My vision clears at last, and I see his face, that arrogant frown, those beautiful features of his twisted into irritation and annoyance. And it's as if not even a day has passed since he abandoned me on the shores of Araman, left me and my people to the mercies of the Ice. My hand forms into a fist and makes for his nose without even an attempt at conscious thought. His eyes widen in surprise, and he catches my fist with his hand easily. I struggle upwards, forcing my reluctant body into a sitting position. 

"Well," he says. "You are awake, after all. Finally. You've been whimpering and making strange noises in your sleep for ages now."

I glance around, my eyes not yet fully focused, catching quick glimpses of a room dimly lit and small, a desk a few steps away. I have been lying on a couch, and there is a bed in the far corner. No doors are visible. 

Memories are still making their way back into my mind, but I am certain that the last thing I remember is stabbing upward with my sword, black blood gushing from my Enemy, burning me. My mouth forms a question, and Fëanáro speaks before I can get the words out. 

"Yes," he says. "You're dead. We both are." He gestures around the room. "Welcome to prison."

* * *

He explains it in brief words: this is where he has been told he will stay until the end of Arda, because of his crimes, his possessiveness, the effect his deeds have had on so many lives. 

"When they brought you here, they did not explain anything," Fëanáro says, looking down his nose at me. "Just carried you in, and left you here. But then, I was busy working out an idea to hone the Palantari and make them more effective for use in battle, so I hardly noticed your arrival." He pauses, and moves as if to get up, but does not do so. "I hope you know why you're here."

I shake my head, and sigh. "Why are you working on anything at all, Fëanáro? It doesn't matter if you have great ideas, when you will be imprisoned for the rest of time." 

He looks vaguely surprised, caught out almost, for a moment, but then his face lights up and he smiles. "Just because I am in here does not mean the world has ceased to exist, Ñolo! And the ideas come, they will have their way whether they see any use or not." He takes me by the shoulder, and leans in, confidentially. "If you think I intend to stay in these four walls for the rest of time, you'd best think again. I am condemned unjustly, and it is the duty of anyone condemned beyond reason to escape!"

I draw myself up, sitting up straight to meet his eyes. "Unjustly?" I say. "Your crimes were great, and your deeds have gone very ill." 

"That does not justify keeping me in here for _the rest of time_ , Ñolo," he says firmly, but draws back a little. "No, I'll find a way."

I can't resist a half-admiring glance. His stubbornness is one of the things I most hated and loved about him. "Being Fëanáro, I don't doubt that you will," I say, and he laughs. "Only take me with you!" I add, and let a smile of my own slip out. "I swore to follow you." 

Fëanáro nods. "I won't leave you behind, this time," he says, and there's something softer in his eyes now. Not an apology, but I know him well enough to know that I am unlikely to get one.

* * *

Over the next little while, I manage to get to my feet and slowly explore the entire space. There's little enough to it: the couch I awoke on, small tables on either side of it, a desk and its chair, covered with random papers that Fëanáro will not let me touch, a bed, large enough for two if we're cozy, a chest which contains plain tunics in a variety of colours, a fireplace with a little fire snapping away, but no extra wood visible, a tiny kitchen area with a sink, a stove, and an icebox, and just the other side of it, a small bathing chamber, curtained off. There are no doors leading outside, no windows. It feels very confined and small. 

"How did they bring me in here, if there is no door?" I ask, more out of idle curiosity than anything else. Fëanáro turns in his chair to look at me, frowning a little. 

"They appeared in the centre of the room carrying you: two Maiar, not ones I knew," he said. "Didn't say a word to me, but they usually don't." 

"How do you get food?" I say, turning to the empty icebox, contemplating. He frowns. 

"I think of what I would like to make, and the ingredients appear, generally," he says. "Same with paper and pen, although books don't come to me, no matter how hard I think of them."

"What about clothing?" I gesture to my own blue tunic and then to his red one. 

"We'll have to share," he says with a shrug, and then laughs a little, as if at a private joke. I raise my eyebrows, and he goes on to explain. "This reminds me of nothing so much as when Tyelko and Moyro fought - you know, they were close in age - and I would have to take them aside and tie their hands together, and tell them they would remain so until they came to me together with a joint apology for their misdeeds." 

"Fëanáro!" I say, a hint of a rebuke entering my voice. "Surely that was somewhat cruel." 

He shakes his head. "Just because your children were well-behaved, at least while in your presence, is no need to assume that all children would be. In any case, Tyelko and Moyro would usually figure out a way of cooperating to untie the knot quickly enough, would get themselves out of it, and feel like they'd put one over on me. But I was usually well satisfied with the results. It mended matters, that was the important part." He paused, and glanced upward at the low ceiling. "Is that why they put you in here with me, I wonder?"

* * *

Time seemed to pass slowly. I think of food I would like to make - toasted bread with goats' cheese, and the ingredients appear, as Fëanáro said they would. I spend some time toasting the bread, keeping an eye on it, but mostly staring into the flickering flames of the small fire. Fëanáro goes back to his work, ignoring me completely. 

When the food is ready, I bring him some slices of toast topped with the goats' cheese, startling him enough to surprise a smile. He sets his pen aside and eats slowly, savouring the taste. "What is this cheese?" he says. Goats were not nearly as common in Valinor as in Beleriand, so it's not surprising he doesn't know what goats' cheese is. I explain, and he nods. "I like it." I get the impression that it's been some time since he's bothered to eat. 

After the meal, I sit down on the couch again, and Fëanáro leaves his work on the desk and comes to sit by me. He looks half-shamefaced to be doing it, but cannot seem to resist, and I realise that he was repressing his loneliness, earlier. He really is very glad to have me here, and shows it by touching me as we speak, now and again, lightly laying a hand on my shoulder, then stroking down my arm, and once, taking my hand in his. 

I tell him all the news. Maedhros, one-handed Lord of Himring, staunch ally, my very own kingmaker. Fëanáro doesn't seem surprised to hear that I was king in Beleriand, and when I ask, he tells me plainly. "My eldest would always do what he felt was most practical. He was the peacekeeper among us. Of all my sons, he takes most after his mother." 

I talk on for some time, telling tales of Maglor's fame as a bard, of Caranthir's wealth and friendship with the Dwarves, of Curufin and Celegorm's home in Himlad, of the twins and their skills as hunters. I talk of the arrival of Men and what staunch allies they have proved to be. I sing snatches of lays both sad and cheerful, tell stories of household incidents until I can speak no longer. 

And Fëanáro listens. Never before have I had him so close to me for so long, and so willing to be silent and just listen. He curls up beside me at some point and eventually settles down with his head on my lap. My hand slides into his hair as if that was where it belonged, and he makes a soft rumbling sound like the purr of a cat at peace. I stroke his hair, gently, over and over. 

"Will you kiss me, brother?" he says at last, apropos of nothing at all, and I am so taken with wonder at the knowledge that he's left off the dreaded _half_ that I immediately bend and lay my mouth on his. 

His mouth is warm. He tastes, faintly, of salt, like tears or sweat. I feel like I am in a dream. He wraps his arms around my neck and we kiss for a slow eternity, until finally he scrambles up to straddle my lap. This way he is the taller of us, and he bends to kiss me. I wrap my arms around his waist, drift down to cup his arse, feel his hardness pressing into my side. 

The tiny space that felt it was closing in on me before has become a place in heaven, a set-aside space for joy and pleasure. Here there are no expectations, no laws or customs, no positions or powers, great or small. There is only the two of us and this passion singing between us. 

I rise with him in my arms and carry him across to the bed. Somehow we shed our tunics. Neither of us is wearing anything beneath, and he is hot against me, the light in his eyes burning through me. We say nothing, we only feel, and it is enough. 

I take him in my mouth, kiss his cock clumsily. I have never done this before, but he doesn't seem to know or care. It's his turn to card his fingers through my hair, over and over, as I experiment to find out what he likes. He makes delightful noises, not holding back even the smallest sound. It is a joy to embrace him like this - like I always wanted to, I now know. 

He comes in my mouth, taking me by surprise, and immediately draws me up for a kiss. I share his own taste with him, and he strokes me as we kiss, until I come too, all over his chest. A smile lights his face, and he scoops up some of my seed on a finger and tastes it. I sink back to the bed, overwhelmed by pleasure, as he calmly cleans himself.

* * *

Days pass by - they could be days, or years, or centuries, for all I know. We sit together at the desk, refining and honing each other's work. I'm no smith, but I have the benefit of over four hundred years of life in Beleriand fighting Morgoth. During rest periods, we cook together, eat together, sleep together. 

We argue from time to time, tempers flaring, and more than once it comes to physical blows between us, but always that seems to turn into another kind of physicality, and we resolve our differences with passionate lovemaking and in the aftermath, long discussions. 

No one comes to visit, and there is still no way out. But I've seen, from time to time, the wall next to the desk wavering, shaking a little. I dare not speak of it, in case we are being watched. 

Instead, under the guise of play, I work on devising a code with Fëanáro, based on gestures and significant looks, references to our past days, both in Valinor and here in this time and space. Unless we have been watched closely every day of our lives, no one will be able to fully figure out what we mean, if we communicate effectively. 

"We have to fight our way out of here," I tell him in the code, as soon as we've developed it to that level. "If you want to escape, I think we can." 

"How?" he asks, and tries not to look around the room for a hint. 

I tell him. "I'm going to punch the wall until it breaks." 

"I tried that," he says. "Back when I was first put in here." 

"Yes," I say. "But _we_ haven't tried it. Gather whatever you want to take, quickly and quietly." 

He collects our designs into one compact package and stuffs them into his clothes. I grab the sheets off the bed, and wrap one of them around my fist. He does the same with the other. 

Then we attack the wall. Silence is pointless now. We shout in unison, and the wall shatters after several hard blows. Freedom awaits us. A cold breeze blows into the room. 

I take his hand, and we step out into the darkness.


End file.
